


Petrified

by Trash



Category: Linkin Park, Styles of Beyond
Genre: Domestic Violence, M/M, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-22
Updated: 2014-01-22
Packaged: 2018-01-09 16:02:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1147931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trash/pseuds/Trash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The making of the Petrified video and Mike's getting his heart and body broken all over again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Petrified

You’re pressed against the side of the trailer, head back and he’s kissing your neck. Bites down and all you can do is groan, whimper and press harder against the cold metal. He jams a leg between your thighs and raises his knee, rubbing you through your jeans and you can’t help but moan into the silence around you.

That’s when he back hands you and you’re not surprised in the slightest. He presses his lips against your ear and his tone is low and threatening when he whispers “Shut the fuck up. If anyone hears you, we’re in big trouble.”

He’s unzipping his pants, one hand on your head he pushes you to your knees in the dirt. You raise one hand to spin your cap around and the other grips the base of his cock as you take the head in your mouth. This used to be hot. In the beginning you’d get together and you’d let him do what he wanted to you. He never hurt you, never ordered you around, he loved you.

But now his fingers are digging into your head through your cap and you don’t think you can really remember when everything changed. It wasn’t long after you all started recording. Being so close day after day...you like to think it just drove him over the edge, and that he wasn’t always an asshole.

The studio was empty and you were straddling his lap, pressing against him and he wrapped a hand around your throat. It hurt, stubby nails breaking skin and you gasped out, “Tak please. Please, you’re...you’re hurting me.” He eventually let go, but not before you passed out from fear and lack of oxygen.

He swore you to secrecy so when Brad asked what the bruises on your neck were you just winked, “You know how it is,” a dirty smile and Brad grinned back because he’s like that. Him and Chester, rough and dirty and what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

The pair of you went out to a bar. Surrounded by people, you’re smiling and he’s laughing. He never really holds you, but all the while there’s a possessive hand on your hip, a gentle reminder of who you belong to. It’s four a.m. before you’re stumbling home, his home not yours, and you’re so drunk you barely notice the hand unbuttoning your fly.

You bat his hands away feebly, tell him, “Not now…I don’t want to now.”

He isn’t listening, or perhaps he simply chooses not to. Either way, he’s pushing you forcefully towards the bedroom. Everything is in slow motion, like you’re underwater, and you can’t quite get your arms to...and your legs just won’t...

He rips at your shirt, pushing you face down on the mattress and you’re fucking terrified because you can’t breathe and you don’t need to be sober to know what’s going to happen. “Stay fucking still, you little rat,” he hisses and punches you hard in the small of the back. It hurts, so much, and you have a horrible feeling you’ll be pissing blood for weeks but that’s at the back of your mind because he’s got your pants around your ankles and his positioning himself behind you.

And oh god it hurts. Like nothing you’ve ever felt before. It tears you apart and you scream, tears rolling down your cheeks as you try in vain to pull away from his bruising grasp. He grips your hips hard and thrusts into you and he’s loving every minute of it.

It’s always like this when you...well, ‘make love’ isn’t the term you’re looking for…but you get the picture.

But now, on your knees in the dirt, you do as he orders you to do. You know you shouldn’t. You know that if you were a strong person you’d push him away. He’s a liar, dirty fucking liar when he moans out that he loves you and you gag and fight back tears because they just make you even weaker.

When he’s done he steps back, zips up his pants and kicks you in the ribs. You fall backwards, hitting your head on the trailer and you lie there. Sprawled out in the dirt you look up at him towering over you like some figure of God. He smirks and tells you to clean yourself up. He murmurs “Thank you, baby,” then disappears to find Ryu and Cheapshot and to lie about where he’s been.

Nobody knows about the pair of you, least of all what actually goes on. They think you’re friends. The kind of friends you used to be with Chester before he finally clicked on. The bruises, the scars, and he has been there before so he’s not as blissfully ignorant as the others. He told you seriously, sternly to leave Tak. You refused. Now he won’t even return your phone calls.

You pick yourself up off the ground and dust yourself off. Thank god for black and white footage, you think as you look down at the specks of blood on your shirt and the bruises on your arms.

You limp around the corner, trying your hardest not to grimace every time you take a step, after all – Tak wasn’t exactly gentle with you last night. He’s still pissed that he’s hardly going to be involved in the video. He’s pissed because he loves himself and wants more screen time. But every time somebody asks him his opinion on the song he grins and says he loves, he loves the video ideas too, he calls you a genius and sings your praises but then once your at home and the lights are out he beats you and calls you a selfish asshole.

This is all your fault. You should have chosen a different song, but this was one of the decisions you failed to see the disadvantages of at the time. But now? Oh you see them now.

It was Tak who set off the first flare. He knew what would happen, he knew you’d start coughing, knew it would make old wounds ache when your entire body tensed as you tried to draw in enough air to breathe.

He goes with you to get your inhaler, holds it just out of reach and laughs when you whimper in fear. You gasp out “please” but he isn’t listening, he’s too busy laughing at your pained expression. You can’t help but cry. You sink down into a chair and rest your head in your hands and cry. In the background you can still hear your lover’s laughter but you’re too busy focused on your breathing. Part of you wants to pass out, pass out and die and never have to wake up to his sneering face ever again.

But then he throws your inhaler at your feet and you can hear the sarcasm in his voice, “Take your inhaler, baby. Don’t want you getting really sick do we?”

It’s a lie and you both know it. He loves it when you get sick, loves taking the opportunity to make it worse if he can. But you just shake your head and murmur, “No, no we don’t.”

He moves towards you and kneels down, softly kisses your cheek and puts the inhaler in your hand. “Now take your medicine, baby. Then get your ass outside and stop being such a dramatic asshole.” He runs a gentle hand through your hair and whispers “I love you.” Pushes himself up and walks away, out of the trailer and closes the door behind you.

Into the silence you whisper “I love you too,” you take your inhaler, and you cry.


End file.
